


Betelgeuse

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester, De-Aged Dean Winchester, Episode: s10e12 About A Boy, M/M, Mirror Sex, Size Kink, Top Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: The hex bag never burned.2020 kink bingo square 04: mirror sex
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 12
Kudos: 280
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	Betelgeuse

This is a new-old amalgamation of bemusement and sadness. Dean’s got one elbow on the counter while Sam’s leaning forward across it. The receptionist name-tagged ‘Barbara’ can’t tell apart the actual humiliation from the helpless dad façade she might be getting (judging by the compassionate looks she’s shifted into). The lines are surprisingly blurry for Dean, too.

“Just gimme a minute to go through the room again real quick, hon’,” she says, already getting up.

Sam humbles, “Thank you,” while Dean seizes the moment to pocket a decent-looking bottle from the now also abandoned bar (and showing the security cam nothing but his back).

“Dude.”

“What.”

The lady must’ve had all the right reasons to do a once-over for the room. She stays gone long enough for Sam to drop down on a chair and for Dean to take two swigs.

Sam’s dad vibes intensify. “Really?”

Dean winks. “Gotta start ’em young, Sammy.”

Barbara smuggles a chocolate bar into Dean’s hand as they pass each other, and Dean doesn’t think he looks _that_ young, but he makes his best Oliver Twist face nevertheless.

They’re all the way down the hall. It’s a small place, real classy with red velvet wallpaper and shit. There’s a half-wilted bouquet of roses every two steps of the way.

Dean insisted on carrying his own bag and he hates that he can’t wait to drop it the fuck down somewhere.

Sam has the honor of unlocking and stepping in first, and all Dean gets as a warning is a shy-boy, “Oh,” before he follows into what turns out to be covered with more artificial fur than the entirety of the Muppets prop room.

The whiskey makes it even funnier.

Dean laugh-grunts and his voice reaches an unheard-of pitch. “Shit!”

The room seems narrow but maybe that’s just because of all the purple fuzz, the heavy curtains, the overwhelming scent of flowers (yes, roses, check).

A satin quilted blanket covers the more-than prominent bed, and it dwarfs the good-Christian cot hastily set next to it to fucking oblivion.

Dean sprints to throw himself back-first onto the Unholy and bounces alarmingly high.

The place doesn’t disappoint—the melodic scream of mattress springs feels like home.

They might have found the most honeymoon-esque nest of all hot-sheet hotels.

Dean scream-laughs when he re-opens his eyes to see himself in the fairy-lights framed mirror tiles adorning the ceiling.

“This is the best—thing—ever.”

“You’re taking the cot.”

Dean gets up on one elbow and fishes for the bottle inside his coat. “What? Why?”

Dean’s brother disposes of his jacket. “Because you’re like four-foot and some change. At least take off your boots.”

Dean puts on his most deadly little flirt-face. Or, what made up a decent one with his thirty-plus-years face. “Thought we were sharing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not what you said last night.”

“Cut it out, Dean.”

“Don’t _Dean_ me—”

“Look,” interrupts Sam, “we’re not having this conversation, okay? I’m fucking drained, I’ll have to drive all day again tomorrow— _move_.”

Dean’s expression and mood sober. He takes an appropriate sip from his stolen goods. “Alright, buzzkill. Geez.”

It’s been less than forty-eight hours and he’s already over it.

It was his decision. Ironically, he can’t turn the clocks back. And maybe he doesn’t even want to, anyway.

All he knows that it’s awkward and horrible and he is entirely overtaxed with possibilities. And dangers. And hopes. And anxiety.

A new start. How many people get to have one, let alone a Winchester?

Dean’s got to use a new angle for his head to look at his little brother. Even slumped over and seated on the edge of the bed like right now, he’s gigantic. Has been for years now, of course, but Dean’s back to fun size. The only guy he ever felt this inferior to used to be Dad.

Sam tells him, “I’ll hit the shower,” and Dean mumbles his approval, on his side on the cot, nursing his Jack. His newly reset liver has no clue what’s going on, but his mind knows the few ways to keep him (relatively) sane in times like these. Which are most of the times.

Instead of a door, there is a beaded curtain Sam ducks through. All lights are dimmed and warm-ish and the alcohol begins to take its toll, painting everything even softer, even cozier.

Someone is getting reamed out next door. Dean takes another generous gulp.

The hot steam rolls into the room, unhindered. Dean slips out of his boots, his coat, his jeans, and pulls the kiddie-blanket over himself. Rubs at his eye, not tired at all and yet fucking wasted for the day. He’s starving but Sam hadn’t said anything, so he doesn’t want to be a bitch. Bad enough that he can’t drive. That Sam’s gotta play Dad for the next few years to come.

Sam kills all lights once he’s done and out of the bathroom. Dean blinks through the darkness (when did he fall asleep?) and hears the satin shift, hears the springs creak. Sam always bunches a pillow between his elbow and his ear. There’s a mile and a half separating them in this tiny-ass hole of a room.

Dean falls back under within moments.

~

There’s a fraction of an actual second where you’re aware that you’re about to wake up, meaning you’re asleep when you think it. It fucks with him every time.

Dean wakes with a deep, deep inhale. His eyes snap open soon after.

The room is still filled to the brim with darkness.

God, he’s thirsty.

He can do something Sam’s never managed—move around without waking him up. Comes with sharing the room with a toddler and people around who will call the cops if he screams too much because usually, parents are able to keep their babies from crying. (Dad never specifically spelled those things out for him, but Dean’s always been a smartass.)

Thermos from his duffle, a protein bar. He wolfs the latter down, feels kinda sick. No idea how what he imbibed translates to a BAC for this teen body; can’t remember.

Even Sam looks…no, scratch that: for once, _he doesn’t look too big for a bed_. A mountain under that ridiculous blanket, left shoulder pointed to the mirrored heavens. God, the mirrors. He forgot.

Dean reaches his hand out and waves at himself. Flips the bird to himself. He drops his tired arm. The satin feels nice against his skin.

The bed barely creaks under his baby weight. It’s quiet next door now, so he can hear the spanking session from across the hall. Raw, rhythmic sounds. His brain swims in booze and sleep and maddening thoughts.

One of Sam’s legs could be stretched at a ninety-degree angle and they still wouldn’t be touching, both on the far ends of the bed. Dean spends several minutes here which feel and taste like hours.

It’s all your fault. Selfish. You never consider other people’s interests, do you?

Sam never asked for any of this.

Dean can hear that finger curling around the trigger and the sleep-haunted, “Whu?” and Sam’s hair is still kinda damp, will look like shit in the morning and he’ll have to smooth it down with fresh water.

“Jus’ me,” whispers a voice that not even Dean himself recognizes as his own, and the gun clicks and Sam’s muscles tense so he rushes, “Dean—it’s me, _Dean_.”

“Jesus.” Dean can’t quite wrap his arms around his brother anymore. Sam isn’t trying to touch him back. “What are you doing? I almost shot you.”

Dean croaks, “Can’t sleep,” and Sam just grunts his disinterest in the matter. Dean’s nose isn’t high up enough to smother itself into that nape like before; he’s somewhere between Sam’s tee-covered and—now—damp shoulder blades.

“Just go to sleep.”

Dean’s hand Pavlovian-reaches across Sam’s body.

Sam nudges him with his entire bulk. “Cut it out.”

“What,” says Dean and gets a solid grip now. The girth startles him before he realizes that Sam didn’t grow but that instead he himself _shrank_ , and the goosebumps settle in for good around then.

Sam grits, “You’re…”

A kid? Too small? Disgusting? My brother?

It’s all adrenaline and the ghost of a gun in Sam’s palm, but Dean’s good at re-programming.

“Jus’ pretend it’s nineteen ninety-six.”

Dean swears he can feel him thickening right here in his palm. Quickly sneaks his hand into Sam’s boxers and scoots his body closer, big spoon now (or all he can give in that regard). He needs to feel it all. Needs to know they’re still…well, maybe not ‘okay’.

Whatever it is.

Sam stifles a shaky breath. Pushes his ass back on habit, pats a cold hand onto Dean’s forearm—stop don’t stop.

Dean wrings brother-dick with all the intention; something beyond muscle memory. He’s hard himself instantly with Sam rubbing up on him like he does. A pang of incompetence surges through him upon realizing Sam’s used to his fully-grown dick.

Tiny kid dick. Couldn’t satisfy anyone even if you tried.

Shit, that shouldn’t drive him even more positively crazy, should it?

A love-slip of fingers across the dampening crown. Sam’s always been a dripper. “Put it in me.”

“Jesus—what? No.”

“Fucking do it.” Winchesters aren’t exactly known for their impulse control. “Wanna know what it’s like. How it felt when—”

The world spins fast enough for Dean to lose his breath and he’s on his back long before he realizes it’s because Sam’s knocked it out of him.

There’s a hand bracing a significant amount of those two hundred pounds on Dean’s chicken chest and the mattress springs lick at his spine, he’s pushed so deep. He can’t exactly close his mouth right.

Sam’s adorable forehead is worry-horny frowned. Dean hears him pulling his dick out of his underwear. “You sure?”

Dean’s teen voice chokes, “Positive.”

Just past Sam’s ear, there’s the image of Dean’s dumb baby face, the splay of his twig-arms. Dean shifts his knees out just to see them poking out around Sam’s boulder of a back.

Sam scoffs and tells him, “You’re the worst,” and while it’s the honest truth it’s also the kind of endearing shit that could bring tears to Dean’s eyes on a softer day.

“Like you hadn’t thought of it yet.”

Sam’s superfluously stroking himself like he’s gotta map it out, consider it. “It’s not gonna fit.”

Dean grins. “You keep saying that.” He sprawls deliberately. Can’t even say he’d wish what Sam’s seeing right now because he _can_ see it in the mirrors. “You’re not _that_ big.”

Sam’s dimples flick into existence. First time all day. “I’ll remind you that you said that.”

Dean worms out of his underwear when Sam lets him up to do the same, leans to grab his duffle for the lube.

“Wait, they got some fancy shit right here. Check it out.” A cutesy bottle dangles from Sam’s fingers. It’s sized just right for a one-use-only considering what they’re working with.

Barbara wasn’t thorough.

Dean’s nearly finished his, “Nice,” by the time Sam’s already rubbing a generous dollop of the stuff down his unfamiliarly sparsely-haired taint. Giving him two fingers right away is Sam’s way of assuring him ‘calm down, I’m not gonna baby you’ and while Dean loves him for it, it gives him a good taste of body horror.

God, it’s different.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” he half-lies, catching himself from going cross-eyed at Sam forcing knuckle-deep despite the pressure he must surely be aware of (right?). He angles his leg up and away, back down on one elbow and focusing on relaxing, breathing—yeah, breathing is good.

Sam kisses him on the mouth. Their stubble usually catches like barbs, but all Dean gets now is one-sided chafe. 

“Help me out. C’mon,” all whisper-sweet against his mouth and Dean obliges blindly, angles middle and ring in and pushes them up his ass, next to Sam’s. Hears, “Fuck,” and thinks the same.

Sam grinds into him deep and well, fucking _invasive_ and Dean starts to sweat when he feels that index angling in to join the party. It’s too soon and they both know and neither of them is gonna say it.

All Dean manages is, “Lube,” and gets what he wants. As always.

Sam’s bowing his back to watch and Dean shivers with the animal growl, with the squelch he’s getting fucked out of his too-tight hole.

Hears, “Shit,” and, “Look at you,” and Dean does, unbeknownst to Sam.

Used to the dark now, Dean watches his own face like a first time.

“Fuck yourself. Yeah, just like that.” Dean pleasure-sighs. “Fuck, this is so fucked up.”

Sam says that and yet picks up the pace like this is still the body of that same thirty-six-year-old slut who’s been giving it up for him since the moment he’d gathered enough confidence to ask for it.

Sam asks, “Can I kiss you,” all reverent and as if Dean would say no, and Dean dumb-nods and Sam’s spit tastes like genuine hunger, like acid and dick and the thick scent of lube rapidly taking over the air.

Dean whines, folded up and his shoulders bear all of his meager weight with how Sam’s handling him, curled up and over him so that if Dean checked the mirrors, he’d see nothing but Sam’s tee-clad back—he cradles that sweaty face with both of his too-small hands instead, absently laps at a too-rough lip while Sam’s doing his goddamn best to break his ass in properly.

Judging by the sounds, he’s doing just fine.

Dean gasps a thoughtless, “No, no,” when Sam forces his pinkie in, too, just gets wet kisses and a tear in his eye in response.

When all of this is over, he’ll dwell in the sincerity how Sam’s at least as into this as him.

Drops of sweat hit Dean’s face and he can barely feel it with how cross-eyed Sam’s hand is working him.

“Ready?”

Dean can’t think, let alone reply. He just nods, snot-nosed, and blacks halfway out for the (pointedly gentle) pull-back of most of that entire fucking hand. The brother part of his brain tries to put together a snarky remark but resigns upon Sam not wasting a goddamn second.

He’s pushed himself halfway into Dean by the time Dean can take half of a breath, or whatever spasm it is that rolls through him at that point.

Dean clutch-scratches at a shoulder. His body isn’t used to surrender.

Dean struggles.

“You okay?”

Dean empty-nods, gets two of those still-lubed fingers wedged past the white of his teeth.

“Bit off more than you can chew?”

Sam’s voice is gravel and he’s pushing another inch of cock somewhere past the inside of Dean’s navel, and even without the fingers in his mouth, Dean wouldn’t be able to muster up a reply.

Sam is nasty-boy smiling and begins to grind his hips.

Dean half-splutters, half-gags around both the fingers scraping past his uvula and the first real thrust.

He can feel his insides being turned out. This is about the worst time to remember Sam’s into some pretty fucked up shit.

That kid in the mirror sure looks like he’s stuck in some good horror flick.

Dean gets three fingers but manages a whimper around them nevertheless. He scrapes four red lines down Sam’s broken-more-than-once forearm without meaning to. Not that Sam would mind, or notice.

Dean’s ears pick up, “Shh-shh-shh,” somewhere over-around the spring orchestra, around the slap of skin on skin, the lube. “Suck on them. Here. There you go.”

Dean’s holding on for dear life through what might be a packed-tight rhythm for some, but more of an insult once you know what your little brother is actually capable of.

Sweat stings in Dean’s squished-closed eyes. Sam’s knuckles taste like salt and skin and lube and himself. He gags again, uselessly.

“Can’t let ’em hear you. We’ll get in so much trouble.”

Sam’s happy trail bangs up against Dean’s taint and he cries out a little, puppy-ish, his eyes swimming open now. It hurts in that sick way, when you know you really shouldn’t like it.

Sam’s hauling himself up on one arm, still fucking him too-deep. Unlike Sam, Dean never got the kind of body fat percentage where he’d bulge out right, but. God.

He feels like it’s pretty close.

“Being good for me, little brother.”

Dean’s orgasm hits him unprepared.

Yeah, pretty nineteen-ninety-six alright.

Sam laughs. A rare sight. Like, genuine amusement. He slows down (a little).

“Cute.”

“Mmnpf uu.”

“Need a break?”

Dean’s eyes flick to his reflection above. God, he forgot how much he hated his baby-fat face. The dumb too-girlish features. Still a few years to wear those down.

Sam’s dimples twitch upon the pressure-cut of teeth around his fingers.


End file.
